Ferine
could see the reflection of Johnny in the condition of his bicycle. He had
escaped on it from the soccer hoodlums at Dyker Park but it was scratched up,
the wheel was bent, and the gears no longer worked smoothly. For months he had
been taking two buses to Ferine’s home, sometimes walking the five miles and
beating the bus there as infrequent as they were. He was even having a harder
time getting it up for Ferine, an intolerable byproduct of the depression and
drugs.
Ferine had
a good idea; an exchange of birthday gifts and a graduation gift for Johnny who
was finishing high school. “I’ll buy you a new bicycle and you buy me one, How
about that?”
“I want a
Peugeot; a white Peugeot,” Johnny moaned.
“And so do
I,” said Ferine excitably. She envisioned to him a side by side ride up the
Ocean Parkway bike path to the Prospect Park zoo. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful? And we can find a nice secluded spot,” she whispered. Johnny moaned.
“And why
wait until our birthdays when the summer will be half over; let’s get them
now!” Ferine said and jumped up excitedly.
“I guess
we could go to Weber’s and pay on time,” Johnny was lightening up. “Okay. Let’s
go to Weber’s this Sunday and put in our order.” To Weber’s they went, Weber,
an orthodox Jew with a bicycle shop across from the shuttered Borough Park
Theater under the el on 51st Street. Johnny had seen a white
ten-speed Peugeot there recently. There was even a smaller female version with
a low bar for a girl to gracefully get on without having to mount it like a
cowboy.
By the
time graduation day came and school was out for the summer, even forever, the
bicycles were paid up, delivered, assembled, and ready to ride. That first
Monday with no school, it poured all day. Their side by side ride would have to
wait until Ferine got back from a Fourth of July weekend with her family in Red
Hook. Johnny had a lot of time on his hands and he couldn’t wait to ride. He
would blow a joint and get on that shiny new bike for a ride to Manhattan,
Washington Square Park.
July
Fourth was one of those special New York City summer days with plenty of
asphalt sucking heat and no wind to blow it away, even in Brooklyn. Kids in the
neighborhoods knew what to do on such a day: open up the fire hydrants with big
old wrenches and dance in the streets in torrents of freezing cold water. Splash
the passing cars, whether they wanted a wash or not. Watch the old passengers
in buses frantically trying to close their windows before the kids could aim
their water at the openings with garbage can lids
Johnny
took off for the two hour ride, long wavy hair tied back in a pony tail, short
cut black jeans, maroon t-shirt and Converse All-Stars with white athletic
socks folded over the laces so they wouldn’t get tangled in the peddles, an
official factory-made Peugeot canteen of water in the holder, up the hump of
Sunset Park and a right down the slope at Fourth Avenue, a straight four-lane left
on Prospect Avenue and into Hamilton Avenue under the Gowanus Expressway; right
on Hicks Street. He followed Hicks Street alongside the submerged
Brooklyn-Queens Expressway to Atlantic Avenue, left and down along the piers at
Furman Street to Old Fulton and onto the Brooklyn Bridge. Ah, the gallons of
fresh water, a new gush across every cross street, a new gang of neighborhood
teens splashing a participating bicyclist with their joyous summer flood, cold
Catskill wine and wet again; what a thrill! Carry the bike up the steps and
you’re there on the smooth cement path that turns into rickety wooden board
that thump in time like music to the ridden over. Ride up the incline and
around the anchorage to the main span. What better place to rest and have a
smoke than mid-span on a Brooklyn Bridge bench with East River breezes blowing
away any evidence? Woodstock was overtaking Altamont again.
Johnny
glided down the loose wooden slats on the Manhattan side of the bridge dodging
tourists taking photos of the famous Manhattan skyline with their backs to
Brooklyn. The boards become cement at the anchorage straight down to City Hall
Park, right at Church Street that turns into Avenue of the Americas. At St.
Marks Place, turn right and Washington Square Park is right there.
Johnny was feeling high in Washington Square
Park watching folks playing chess, children hopping in and out of the pool
around the fountain with parents casually sitting nearby. Elderly citizens sat
on benches on either side of the arch near Good Humor ice cream carts, shaved
ice stands, fruit drinks vendors, and music, everywhere music, music from
guitars, a steel kettle drum, and further out an NYU student practicing
clarinet, a Broadway musician playing his violin. The park was filled with
smells of incense from Hare Krishna followers and the sweet smell of ganja; not
a pig in sight.
Johnny walked his
bicycle over to a group of young long-haired men and found a place to sit on
the ledge. They passed around a joint casually to Johnny who took it all in
then passed it on. He’d just met these young men but already he felt like he’d
known them for years; that’s the way it was with hippies and that’s what weed will
do to you.
“Hey man, would you
like a fruit drink? I know the man. Hey, boss, give my friend here lemonade.”
What a contagious scene of love, how bright life was when you were in the Tao, "so unlike the old folks they were," Johnny thought. They were something new.
They didn’t quite know what it was or particularly cared; they just ‘did it.’
“Hey man, cool bike,”
one of his new friends remarked, Johnny nodding his head, proud that he noticed.
“Hey man, you wouldn’t mind if I took a quick ride around the park, would you?”
“Sure, check it out,”
Johnny nonchalantly said, then flinched unconsciously wrapping his mind around
the phantom idea of communalism for a second. It was natural that everyone
brought what they had to share in the Age of Aquarius. He saw the anonymous
friend weave the bicycle around the outside paths of the park, out of sight,
and then back through the trees to the fountain, and then he weaved out of
sight again. It was only a few minutes, he thought and the other young men had
moved on and wandered off the ledge It was so peaceful in the city park and
fifteen minutes had passed. Johnny stood up thinking he saw the man on his bike
talking with someone near a distant tree but it wasn’t him; it wasn’t his bike.
At thirty minutes, the
dusk was gathering in the sky, but it was dawning on Johnny, the dream was over. The nightmare was racing in his heart, from Woodstock to Altamont, paranoia
striking deep. The shadows in the park met lazy days head on as the last
shimmer of golden sun slid from the reflecting town house windows and the
children found their parents heading home. Johnny spun around slowly in a 360o
last look, head lowered, walked to the IND subway. “Before wild Medusa’s
serpents gave birth to hell disguised as heaven, those were the days.”
At the new college in
September, Johnny stood on the quad a week before registration, tossing a
Frisbee with friends. A young man on a blue bicycle rode up to the edge of the
grass and called out. “IS anyone interested in buying a bicycle?” Johnny paid
attention.
“Let me see it,” The
young man got off the bike and walked it over to Johnny who looked it over.
“How much you want?”
“$50 would be okay,”
said the young man.
”Why are you selling
your bike?” Johnny asked suspiciously.
“Oh, it’s not mine. I
found it in the backyard of a house.”
“Really? May I try it
out?” asked Johnny innocently.
“Sure,” said the
backyard bike thief.
He never saw Johnny
Livewire, or the bike, again.
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